


The Compleat Angler

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, Fishing, M/M, Marriage, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes fishing and reflects on his life.  Then he goes to catch a murderer with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Compleat Angler

**Author's Note:**

> I won't bore you with the frustrations Word has given me today. But here I am, nevertheless. 
> 
> This series is now at an end. I have loved writing each one of these and hope you have enjoyed reading them. Thank you so much for your kudos and lovely comments; they help me keep going when things get difficult.
> 
> Now I hope to take some time and write another long Johnlock tale. It seems I still have more to say about these guys. I hope you will look for it in the future.

John Watson went fishing for the first time when he was five years old.

His granddad took him as a special birthday treat. Hamish Watson, a retired ophthalmologist, was a devoted angler and excited to share his passion with his only grandson. “Johnny,” he said as they bobbed along on the pond in the battered, but still sound rowboat that had served the old man for many years, “I believe that a man who fishes will always have a contented soul.”

John was not at all sure what that even meant, but he grinned at Granddad anyway because he was having a good time. He got to play with worms and eat bread and butter sandwiches. Granddad even gave him a tin mug of milky sweet tea. Best of all, there was no Harry to make fun of him. 

After that day, every time Granddad invited him to go back onto the pond near Wimbledon, Johnny said yes. The third time, he even caught a small fish and Grandma cooked it up for his tea.

It was four years later, just after they finished their lunch that Granddad got a funny look on his face and then fell to the bottom of the boat. John chewed on his lower lip for a moment, before remembering something that he’d seen on telly. He knelt next to the old man and beat on his chest, but nothing happened. It took every bit of his strength, but finally he managed to row the boat back to the small dock. He caught his breath and ran up the hill to the cottage to tell Gran what had happened.

John Watson did not go fishing again for nearly fifty years. When he did, it was not because he was seeking contentment; he already had that. Maybe he just wanted to float on the water and experience that contentment for an afternoon.

His plan did not meet with universal approval, of course.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” his contrary husband complained across the breakfast table.

John only finished spreading honey on a slice of toast and set it on Sherlock’s plate. “I just thought it would be fun. We have a pond. There is a rowboat. And I still have my granddad’s gear.” He had dug it out of Harry’s attic after he and Sherlock bought the Sussex cottage.

Sherlock chewed toast thoughtfully. The early morning sun crept into the kitchen, highlighting the just-emerging silver streaks in his tumbled curls. “I think your time would be better spent helping me.”

“I’m sure that you do think so,” John said with a smile. “But the bees are yours today. I am going fishing.”

He was an old hand by now at ignoring Sherlock’s petulance so he just finished his own toast. When breakfast was over, John made himself some bread and butter sandwiches, and then poured tea into a new flask, before setting the creel and rod by the door.

Sherlock was sitting at the desk, checking his email just on the chance that a case worth a trip to London had come in. From the scowl on his face, John assumed that no such thing had happened. 

“I have an extra pole, you know, in case you’d like to join me,” John suggested.

Sherlock did not even bother to respond to that. He did frown a bit as he looked at John. “Is the ridiculous hat necessary?”

“Yep.”

Sherlock just shook his head in apparent sadness at his husband’s sartorial folly.

John kissed him good-bye anyway.

As the day wore on, there was no real sign of any fish, but John did not mind. He drifted a bit; he watched a few puffy clouds edge across the sky. And he thought about contentment, his contentment, which had been so hard-won over a very long time.

What would Granddad have thought about the path that had brought John Hamish Watson to this place in life? There had been family strife, financial troubles, war and injury, anger and sadness. There had been hate and love and betrayal. Laughter and tears and blood.

John smiled wryly as the memories washed over him.

Over the years, there had been all manner of things in his refrigerator. And under his bed.

Footraces through London. Gunfights in dark alleys. Leaps into the unknown and falls into grief.

Sweet kisses and angry kisses and kisses that hid lies.

No one lived without at least a few regrets. Sometimes John wondered what kind of a father he would have been, had the baby been his, had not his wife been who and what she was.

Other times he wondered how life would have been different if he had faced his feelings for Sherlock much sooner. Would the jump from Barts still have happened? How much worse would it have been to lose a lover instead of a best friend?

But, if Granddad suddenly appeared in this boat and asked John about his life, the good and the bad of it, John would have to say that he was indeed contented with the way it had all turned out. The pain had been worth the rewards.

Soon after lunch, John decided that he had done enough fishing for one day. He sat up and started to row back to shore. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock standing on the dock they’d had built by by a local handyman after moving into the cottage. Well, he said standing. Actually, Sherlock was pacing, hands in pockets, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

It was only a couple of minutes before John was tying the boat to a pillar and taking Sherlock’s offered hand up and out. He could read the excitement in his husband’s posture. “What’s up?”

“Dimmock emailed. A locked room murder.”

John recognised that Sherlock really wanted to put an exclamation point after those words, but out of respect for John’s sensibilities, he restrained himself. “So we’re off to London?”

“I’ve already packed our bag and taken Gladstone to the Harrisons.”

“I’ll bet he glared at you the whole time,” John said as they moved towards the cottage.

Sherlock had automatically taken John’s hand as they walked. “That dog gets more like you every day,” he muttered.

John chuckled.

He hoped Granddad knew that his grandson had a most contented soul.

Who could not? A morning spent fishing and now off to London to solve a mystery in the company of the man he loved and who loved him most immoderately in return. He gave a tug and Sherlock turned to face him. “What?”

“I just wanted to give you a good snog before you get all caught up in the case,” John explained. 

“Insatiable,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Your fault for still being so bloody sexy,” John replied, unrepentant.

They snogged until the taxi horn sounded from in front of the cottage.

Then Sherlock Holmes and John Watson went to London and caught a murderer.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Compleat Angler by Izak Walton


End file.
